The Winter of Our Discontent
by Caesar's Palace
Summary: A collaboration series by Caesar's Palace, written around the theme of 'Winter in Panem'. Rated T overall, credit to AprilLittle for the cover.
1. Fallon Lockyer

**Notes: Collaboration from the Caesar's Palace Forum on the theme 'winter in Panem'. Chapters will be published in District order. Feel free to join us on the forum to participate in more such fun things. **

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**Chapter title: **Capitol Punishment

**Author: **Estoma

**Summary/Author's notes: **District 2 is a cold place to live and to die.

**District:** 2

**Character:** Fallon Lockyer (OC)

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The barracks were a long, low collection of square blocks, nestled alongside the Justice Building. Plain stone, rendered a utilitarian white, they looked out of place beside the gleaming columns and marble façade of the grand building. However, both flew two flags; the Capitol's eagle, gold on red, and District 2's grey pickaxe at half-mast. The Flags snapped and danced in the brisk wind that chased around the square. It came down from the eastern range, the Kellies, and while it lacked the icy bite of the north wind it was still enough to drive the peackeepers inside to their common room. Good weather saw them lounge against the sturdy walls of the barracks, cigarette in hand, eyes following the girls shopping in the square, hopeful that for a breeze to disturb their skirts and show their creamy legs.

Zipping up his thick coat, Dirk put his head down against the wind. He left his car and crossed the square with quick, firm steps. Most people smiled or raised a hand in greeting to the victor and he nodded gruffly in return but did not stop. In the doorway of the barracks he paused and pulled his collar down, extending a hand to the young man who came around from behind the desk.

"Darren, is Thread around?"

"Sure, sir, I'll buzz his office."

"No need." Thread's voice was harder than Dirk's, and though he was a few inches shorter than the victor, he commanded the same upright respect in his junior. They were of an age, but Thread's hair was shaved too short to show the grey that shot Dirk's neatly trimmed curls.

"Lockyer," Thread nodded. "How are you keeping?"

"Getting older. All of us are," Dirk shrugged.

"God, we are! Cold doesn't help. How's your nephew doing? Fallon, isn't it?"

"Nearly as tall as me, and twice as strong, these days," Dirk laughed harshly. A hint of a smile played around the corners of his lips despite his tone. "He's top of his age group at the Academy."

"You're not here because he killed someone, again, are you?"

"Not this time. Can we talk?"

While the office and reception had been generously heated, the two dozen holding cells were frigid. Dirk and Thread's breath rose before them like mist.

"Any fuckers here on death row?" Dirk asked roughly, out of hearing of the junior peacekeepers.

"Four."

"Any of them able to run?"

"We haven't broken them all. There's one about your age, he'd do for what you want."

"What's he here for?"

"Stealing," Thread grimaced. "From the poor part of town, right by the foot of the Kellies. Smart bugger though; been fixing the granite shipments out of Pick's mine for five and a half years before he slipped up."

"Maybe not so smart, then."

"You want him?"

Dirk sighed heavily and thrust his hands into his pockets. "Send him up early tomorrow morning, would you?"

Overnight, the wind shifted, bringing with it a metallic tang from the northern ranges. They were simply called 'The Border' for the jagged peaks were filled with crevasses and impassable canyons. Snow clung to their crests all year but for a few weeks in summer when it softened to slush and ran down the slopes in deadly avalanches. Beyond The Border was only wilderness.

Dirk checked the knife in his belt again; the force of old habit, fingers caressing the leather hilt. He sniffed the air and frowned at the promise of snow it carried. Those who dwelt in the mountains of District 2 were just as adept at predicting their weather as the sailors of 4 were at gauging the tides and the currents. Coughing to clear his throat, he stamped his feet on the spot. If he were nervous, it was nothing to what his nephew felt.

"Going to snow tonight," Brutus said gruffly. "Going ahead with it?"

"We've organised it all now. I'd rather not quit," Dirk sighed. "It'll only be a light fall this early in the season."

Dirk turned his eye to his nephew, skittish as a young colt. When Dirk placed a hand on his shoulder, Fallon spun around and brought his fists up. He lowered his hands with a blush and ducked his head.

"Sorry, Dirk."

"No, good boy," Dirk replied gruffly. He knew Fallon needed a little reassurance today, though it was difficult for him to give it. "Go on, take your pack and pick some weapons then we'll go."

Hefting his own pack, Dirk grimaced, tightening the strap around his hips to take as much weight off his back as possible. He slipped his thumbs under the shoulder straps and regretted that he was not as strong as when he won the games more than 20 years ago. He wished he'd given Fallon the tent to carry now.

"Hurry up about it." Gloved hands braced on the straps of his pack, the old victor scrutinised his nephew as he pored over the weapons. Any other time, Dirk would chastise him for taking so long, and still, he had to grit his teeth so as not to say more. Picking the right tool was important, and Fallon's tense shoulders showed that he was well aware he was being judged. As he picked up a heavy sword Dirk scowled. "Wrong. You're dead."

Fallon started and dropped the sword with a clatter, onto the hard ground. "I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Sorry? Don't be sorry. Learn." Dirk strode over, "Tonight, it'll drop below freezing and if you touch a metal handle you'll tear your skin. How well can you fight when you've lost half the skin on your hand? Pick the leather ones. They'll soak up sweat or blood, too, and you won't slip."

Dirk nodded as Fallon belted a sword around his hips, and a pair of knives similar to what he carried, and finally grasped a spear with a good leather grip.

"Right, come on, you know the rules. He's got half a day's head start on us."

Twenty miles north of the capital, Marble, was the career academy. Built in the same style as the barracks, it perched on the edge of a quarry so long abandoned that blackberries had grown like a carpet in the bottom and their canes drooped with overripe fruit. Behind it was the foothills of the Border. Scrappy forest spread back from the quarry and the square, practical buildings. Nothing like the majestic forest giants in District 7, it was none the less, District 2's attempt at a forest. Many of the trees were stunted and bowed by the force of the wind and snow as well as starved for nutrients in the rocky soil.

Behind the academy, fifty acres of the forest was enclosed by a fence; electrified and topped with a double row of barbed wire, the slant facing inwards. There were no quarries within the rough square, but targets had been painted on trees and rocks. Frequently there was the satisfying sound of metal biting into wood as the battered targets were pounded once more. It was in sharp contrast to the resounding screech of a pickaxe scraping down the flank of a granite block, yet District 2 was known for its careers more than for the stonecutters who were the heart of the district. But now, it was silent, except for the wind stirring the bare branches and the ragged breathing of the condemned criminal.

"Go on, take it," Thread proffered the knife with a nasty smile.

"What-what is this?" the man demanded, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had chafed them raw and bloody.

"You get a chance to defend yourself," Thread said. "Don't think of using it on yourself though; if you stay alive for two days, you're pardoned."

"Stay alive?" the man echoed. "What the fuck is this?"

"Training," Thread smirked. "May the odds be ever in your favour."

Dirk adjusted the straps on his shoulders and passed through the gate. He turned to wait for Fallon and saw the boy looking wistfully back towards the buildings. He could guess the words on his lips and forestalled them, beckoning. When Brutus swung the metallic door shut, it had a fateful ring to it. He chucked. "I'm switching on the current now. No pissing on the fence. Good luck to you."

Nodding, Dirk gave Fallon a quick shove. "Move on. You're leading and it's your game."

The wind was crisp enough to bring colour to his face and idly, Dirk wished he had not shaved his beard that morning. As he caressed his knife once more, Dirk kept an eye on his nephew. There was a reason District 2 had fifteen victors to date and District 1 had only 1. Their training program was intensive to the point where some children dropped out before its completion with haunted, darting eyes. This was the hardest test yet, and Dirk wondered momentarily if he should have waited another year, until Fallon was sixteen, before pushing him into it.

"You alright?" Dirk asked gruffly. His voice was nearly snatched away by the wind. It had increased in ferocity already, but Dirk and Fallon both bowed their heads against it as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. He could see the way Fallon's steps dragged, grating against the stones he hardly bothered to step over.

"Dirk," Fallon started quietly, "what…what did he do?"

Dirk heard but half the question, though he had a fair idea what it was. Filling his lungs with the good, clean air, he exhaled sharply. "He killed his wife. Beat her to death."

"Oh." Fallon was quiet for a while, but Dirk read into the way he carried his spear parallel to the ground, and let the tip graze the stone with each few steps. "So he…deserves this?"

"What do you think?" he spat gruffly. He assumed Fallon would take the anger in his tone as directed towards their quarry, rather than his own, acrid lies. They tasted bitter, but Dirk could justify anything to keep his surviving family alive.

Snow fell, driven horizontally against the tent by the wind's malice. It whipped the fabric taunt and then released it in a gush so it appeared to be a giant lung, taking deep, ragged breaths. Even in the tent, their breath rose in solid shapes that lingered in the air.

"Does this mean the test's off?" Fallon asked, voice muffled for he pulled his sleeping bag up around his face. He sounded optimistic, where someone not used to the fierce blizzards would be terrified as the wind howled outside and the snow made flying shapes against the tent.

"You're not off that easily," Dirk growled. "We'll start again tomorrow, and if we need to, we'll do it again in summer."

Fallon's face fell, and he lay back down, the sleeping bag rustling softly.

"Forgetting something?" Dirk asked. "Someone on watch?"

"But-"

"I know there's probably nothing out there. This is training."

"Sorry," Fallon muttered, "do you want me to do it now?"

"No, I'll wake you later," Dirk said with a sigh. "Get some sleep. It'll be hard walking in the snow."

He stiffened as Fallon sighed contentedly and settled down. The tent was narrow and Dirk could feel his nephew's back pressed against his legs. Fallon had no idea how hard it was after his times in the Capitol. Still he took a few deep breaths, and, surprising himself, he reached out to ruffle Fallon's hair, just visible above his sleeping bag. Fallon tensed for a moment before he relaxed under the unexpected caress and sleepily shifted a little closer. It would be a long night.

By morning, the snow had settled into drifts. Early in the season, it was only a moderate dumping; half a foot of snow. Some areas of the rocky ground had been swept clean by the wind and the bare rock was exposed. However, this meant there were drifts piled several feet high where the wind had hurled the snow in a fury. Little clung to the limbs of the trees, and against the start white and brown, they seemed more naked than they had yesterday.

In half an hour they were moving. Dirk relented on his decision to make Fallon carry the tent and his steps were heavy as he trudged behind his nephew, at least letting him tread down a path. Most of the clouds had receded to reveal the pale, watery sky and the sunlight that reflected off the pure snow made them squint.

The day warmed rapidly and the snow began to melt, forming little trickling rivulets around their boots. Taking a route to avoid drifts, and hoping their quarry would have thought similarly, Dirk and Fallon walked among outcrops of rock, taller than they were. To the left was a bank, four metres tall, and it had blocked the wind and prevented any drifts forming to impede their process.

Fallon's sharp exclamation brought Dirk up short. In a moment, his knife was in his hand and his heart hammering. Forgetting that he had planned to let Fallon take the lead, he shoved his nephew back against the bank and held his knife out steadily in front of him. He was pleased to see Fallon had levelled his spear too. As his heart calmed, Dirk sighed.

"Fuck, that's unfortunate."

A fall of soil and a crumped ledge above on the bank told a clear story. He jagged fingers of rock, reaching up, had caught the condemned man as he fell and pierced his belly. Intestines, pale blue and purple slid from the wound like sausages. Where they had been pierced, faecal matter leaked, or it would have, had it not frozen. The way the man had fallen, his face was turned towards them with pale blue skin dusted with ice crystals. There was even a film of ice over his open eyes; he'd probably been there all night. The blood and broken nails, the scuff marks and dirty now around his boots showed he had not died quickly.

"Dirk, I can't-" Fallon mumbled but he interrupted himself, leaning don with hands over his stomach to heave onto the snow. With a sigh, Dirk eased Fallon's pack off and guided him to lean against the nearest outcrop. He patted his back as gently as he could while he finished.

"I think we'll leave it for summer."


	2. Finnick Odair

**Chapter title: **A Child's Story

**Author: **turtledoves

**Summary/Author's notes: **"What about you? Got any stories to share?" /All stories have a place to start and a place to end and something extra in between. Or, Finnick Odair's life told through winters. _Everything in this one-shot, except the two paragraph epilogue, takes place before THG. I tried to focus on Finnick and his relations, not the Games, the war, him being sold, his death, etc. Each section takes place sometime during winter._**  
**

**District: **4

**Character: **Finnick Odair

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**i. prologue- a preface or introductory part of a discourse, poem, or novel**

Rain poured from the sky in sleets, creating a rhythmic pattern on the slanted tin roof. Water dripped from slivers in the ceiling and splashed against the forming puddles. It was cold and dreary and dark, and Hali Odair had gone into labor seventeen hours ago. She was sitting in the middle of her bed with her legs spread. One hand rested stiffly over her abdomen while the other gripped her husband's forearm. She was counting each of her inhalations, and trying to forget each contraction. They were getting more painful with each passing minute, and the only medicine Tom, her husband, had found was a basic pain reliever.

Hali struggled to remember the tips her deceased mother had told her during her first pregnancy. She could only remember she had to breathe deeply before another contraction took away her train of thought. Tom stood next to the bed, gently comforting her. He had been sitting next to her, but Hali found his constant shifting irritable, so she ordered him to stand up. Why was he nervous anyway? He wasn't about to give birth.

The Odairs' next-door neighbor, Kayla Murphy, crouched at the foot of the bed. "Just one more hour," she informed the mother, patting her knee tenderly. "You're doing great."

Kayla was the mother of four boys, and the best help Hali was going to get during the raging winter storm. It was eight hours prior that Tom had draped his coat over his head and braved the short walk through the howling wind. He had barely started knocking when he was pulled in through the door. His explanation was short, and by the end of it Kayla was grabbing the one pain reliever she had and draping her husband's coat over her head.

They had returned to his worried daughter gently tugging on her mother's arm. Tom quickly lifted his daughter off the floor and into the living room.

"You have to stay in here for a while, Maureen," he told her.

"But I wanna see Mama!" she whined, chewing on the end of her thumb.

And then once more, Tom found himself walking through the storm. This time, however, was to drop off Maureen to be watched. She would later be reported to have sulked in front of the fireplace the entire time.

Mrs. Odair had bigger problems than worrying about her daughter, though. She had had a balled up piece of the quilt in both hands and a sore throat from shouting too much. Tom was sitting on the bedside table, wiping the sweat off her forehead and calmly encouraging her. Hali wanted to throttle whoever said the second time is always easier. But with one final scream, the pain slowly started to lessen. It took her a few seconds to quiet the pounding in her head, and then she heard him cry. It was a chorus of soft little wails that quieted into hiccups as Kayla carried him into the bathroom. Her husband was wiping away her tears before she even realized she was crying. His warm lips pressed to her scalp.

"I knew you could do it," he told her with a smile.

Hali half-heartedly snapped at him. "Shut up."

She closed her eyes then, relaxing for a small moment and listening to the pitter-patter of the rain. When she was younger, she hated the rain. It was gloomy, and turned the ocean into a dull gray color that seemed devoid of life. She used to throw tantrums if she had to go outside when it was raining. Now, it calms her. She can't understand why she ever hated it to begin with.

A warm voice took her from her thoughts. "Here's your son, Hali."

Hali hesitantly grasped the newborn from Kayla's hands. He was loosely bundled up in an old worn towel, and his skin had been rinsed clean. He was flailing his arms and twisting his head as much as he could. When his reaching hands found the fabric of his mother's shirt, he squealed. Hali laughed and brushed her hand over his head. He had a light feathering of dark hair and soft blue eyes, both of which Hali new were susceptible to change. She hoped his hair would turn blond, like his father's.

Kayla faltered next to the bed. "I'm not sure of how to get the information into the records, but do you have a name?" She held up the pencil and piece of paper she had found.

Hali smiled. She had already come up with a name months ago.

"Finnick Corliss Odair."

**ii. beginning- the point in time or space at which something starts**

What does a five-year-old understand of the world? It's such a large concept to such a small being. Finnick understood that his father was the strongest person to ever exist, that just because someone says no doesn't mean you have to listen to them, and that his sister liked to pretend she knew everything.

And Maureen was being an absolute menace on one particular morning. She had four years on him, which was a terrible age difference between siblings. She was watching him from the shoreline as he built her a throne because, as she so nicely said, "Princesses don't work. Servants work, didn't you know? And you're a servant!" Then she laughed so hard her sides hurt.

From where she stood, she was within perfect yelling distance of Finnick, but not so close to him that she'd be disgusted by his presence. Water flitted around her feet in bursts of cold and wet. It didn't bother her, though. Soon she'd have a throne all to herself and Finnick would be left to sit on the cold ground. But Finnick wasn't sitting on the ground, and he wasn't building her a throne either. He had piled up enough sand to make a comfortable seat for him to lounge on, and he was doing just that.

"What do you think you're doing?" Maureen demanded. Her fists balled up and rested threateningly on her hips.

Finnick looked at his sister tiredly. It had been a long day, and being forced to spend time with her wasn't helping. His mother called it 'sibling bonding'. Maureen called it 'do what I tell you or I'll throw you to the sharks'. Honestly, he just wanted his sister to like him, but it was beginning to occur to his young mind that she never would. He didn't want to keep trying anymore.

"I'm sitting," he answered.

"Well, stop."

"No!" He crossed his arms.

"I'm going to tell mom!"

"Fine!"

Maureen hesitated, and for a second Finnick worried that she really would tattle on him. But right as Finnick decided he would give up his seat, his sister made a frustrated sound and started yelling again.

"But it's_ my_ throne!"

"No, it's not!"

"Yes, it is!"

"Not!"

"Is!"

"Not!"

"Ugh, you're so annoying! Why can't you just grow up?"

At that, Finnick grit his teeth and turned his head away. If his sister wasn't going to be fair, then he would just ignore her. He'd stay out all night if he had to, even if the winter night froze his toes off.

**.**

Finnick's house was full of girls, and maybe if he was a few years older the concept would have appealed to him, but instead he was just annoyed. He sulked in a corner of the house, pretending to threaten miniature citizens with his fake shark toy as if it would bring his masculinity level back up.

His sister sat proudly at the head of the table, an oversized paper crown sitting on her head. She had been chatting endlessly with her friends for about an hour, a smile plastered on her face. Finnick wanted to bang his head into the wall, and he would've, but his mother was keeping a careful eye on him. So he blew out his breath until his chest felt tight, and then plugged his nose. He was counting the seconds, albeit too quickly, and reached fifty-two before Hali stormed over to him.

He quickly sucked his breath back in, choking a bit on the sudden rush of air, and looked at his mother as innocently as he could. She sighed heavily before sitting next to her son.

"Why don't you sit with your sister? It is her birthday, you know," she reprimanded gently.

His hands fumbled over the toy and it fell with a small bounce. "She doesn't want me there," Finnick mumbled.

"Of course she does, silly. Go on, have a seat."

But Maureen didn't want him with her because she was twelve now and twelve-year-olds were the most intolerable out of all of the ages combined, and today she had even more things to brag about than usual. For one, her birthday was on a Saturday this year, which meant there was no fishing and father was home. She never failed to mention that in two weeks his birthday would fall on a Monday, which was the first day of school after New Year's break.

So, if only to make his mother happy, Finnick sat at the table between two overly excitable pre-teens and prayed for the time his father would bring out the little cookies he had made that morning.

**.**

The first day Finnick can remember Maureen acting like a good sister was only a few weeks after his eighth birthday. He had been sleeping in, like he usually did, causing his mother to worry how awful it would be to wake him once he was a teenager, when cold hands shook him awake.

"Quick, Finnick! Get up quick!" she exclaimed, her voice loud and intruding against the frigid morning air.

But Finnick just blinked his eyes a few times before being lulled back into sleep by the warmth of his quilt.

His sister's hands shook him once more, a bit harder this time. "It's snowing, Finnick!"

It took a moment to let that sink in. Snow? In District Four? It was always too warm for snow, even in winter. In an instant, Finnick was sitting upright, and all notions of sleeping fled from his brain. He slowly took in his sister, her blond hair was wild and tangled, her green eyes were bright with excitement, and her smile was radiant. Then, he snapped his head over to the window. At first, he just saw the dark blue of the ocean waves in the distance and the dead grass before it, but suddenly a white fleck stuck to the glass. A quick gasp escaped past his lips, and then he scurried to the window, his sister behind him.

They both leaned up close, pressing their noses against the cool glass. Maureen stood directly next to her brother, so their limbs collided at strange angles. Finnick balanced on the tip of his toes, leaning against Maureen so he wouldn't fall. The best part was that she didn't even mind.

Finnick heard a low laugh behind him, and didn't have to turn around to know it was his father. He probably couldn't look away from the window if he tried. Tom kindly said they could go outside if they wished. Finnick didn't need to be told twice.

He and Maureen raced each other outside. Finnick instantly regretted not wearing something warmer; he was only in his fuzzy pajama pants and a T-shirt. The cold bit into him, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. There wasn't anywhere close to enough snow to coat the ground, but it was snow nonetheless. It fell like miniscule feathers from the sky, flittering around him. One landed on his finger, and he laughed when it melted.

Maureen suddenly pushed him to the ground, and he looked to her in surprise because he thought things were going well. Not short after, his sister collapsed to the ground next to him to stare up at the sky. He followed her gaze, trying to see what she saw, but only saw gray clouds and flickering white dots.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she asked him, awestruck.

He tried to look harder, even squinted his eyes, but the excitement was fading and he could only think of the cold. But he said yes anyway, because it was the answer she wanted to hear. But slowly he grew older, and slowly he distanced himself. He stopped trying to focus on other people and focused on himself.

**iii. middle- at an equal distance from the extremities of something**

Maureen was sitting on the foot of his bed cross-legged. She was bent forward, so her elbows rested just perfectly on her knees, and her head was in her hands. Her blue eyes were narrowed, her lips pursed. She was staring at her brother, who was folded into a ball on his pillow. Twenty minutes ago he had been screaming louder than she thought his vocal cords were capable of, but now he was just a silent mess of a boy who probably wanted her to leave him alone.

With a sigh, she leaned forward to poke her brother's shoulder. There was no response, but at least he didn't flinch this time. Now Maureen was completely fed up with him. How did he think she felt? This wasn't just his problem; it was hers too. And she told him so.

He uncurled at her harsh words, pushing her with his feet until she got off the bed. His eyes were closed—and dry, she noted—but he was very much awake.

"You have many problems," he muttered, "but this is not one of them."

"I'm leaving," she informed him, but didn't leave.

Finnick opened his eyes. The bright light stunned him for a minute, but there were bigger things he had to worry about. His sister stood framed in the morning light. She actually looked worse than he did. He didn't care, though. He didn't want to care. He wanted to yell at his sister for thinking she had any reason to be in his room and tell him that she had problems too. She never took someone's life.

"You should," he said instead. He was too tired of yelling. "Your dumb boyfriend is probably waiting for you."

Maureen opened her mouth, but only a sob slipped out. Suddenly her face was streaked with tears that weren't there seconds before. Finnick wished he knew what she was thinking. He wanted to ask, but then had to remind himself that he didn't care.

"Fiancé," she managed to say. "I came here to-to tell you that-that I'm engaged."

Finnick couldn't say he was surprised. His sister had always been such a romantic. Of course she would get married when she was eighteen. He stopped looking at her and gazed at the ceiling instead. "That's great," he told her.

"Just thought you-you would want-want to know." Then she left.

He never did get to go to the wedding. He was on his Victory Tour pretending to be happy and answering dumb questions. If one more person asked him how it felt to be the youngest victor ever he would punch him or her in the face. The worst part was how someone (President Snow) planned his stay at the Capital to fall on his fifteenth birthday.

**.**

Finnick never really liked the president very much, but when his family were placed into coffins and sent out to sea, well, he wished Coriolanus Snow would just drop dead.

He was sitting on the edge of the dock, away from the funeral, watching everyone who didn't really care pay his or her respects to the dead. Maureen's husband—Wallis, the son of Kayla Murphy—stood next to her coffin, his hand on the lid. Finnick knew the man wasn't actually depressed over her death. Wallis was sad, sure, but if he cared then he wouldn't be acting respectable. He would kick up a storm of sand and run away, only to hide and watch from a distance. Or maybe that's just Finnick's way of coping.

Tears kept seeping from Finnick's eyes, but he rubbed them away angrily. He wasn't allowed to cry because it was his fault they were dead and he should be dead instead and they should be alive and he shouldn't be crying. He should be avenging his family's death. He should do something. Yet, all he could do was sit there and cry.

The water below him seemed to be breaking angrily, and Finnick was glad something had found the courage not to hide. For a second, he considered jumping in. There were two problems to that, though. Firstly, the water wasn't wild enough to drown him. His instincts would kick, and he'd fight the urge to go under. Second of all, that would go against the other part of his deal with the president. If he were to kill himself, then Snow would kill Mags. He tried to convince himself that he didn't care if the old lady died, but he did. Frustrated, he jumped into the water and swam for shore.

He arrived at his house soaking wet, freezing cold, and seething with anger. Until he saw Mags in his kitchen, that is. She managed to fix all three of his problems at once. A bowl of her homemade clam chowder sat on the counter, a cloud of steam billowing around it. He glumly took a seat before it, and as a reward Mags gave him a spoon and a towel. He started eating it immediately, not caring that it was burning his throat.

"Ungrateful child," Mags muttered from the sink. She was cleaning up his kitchen as always.

"Thank you, oh wondrous Mags. What would I ever do without you?" he said loudly, exaggerating as much as he could, and then flashed her a smile.

She smacked him with the dishtowel. "Work, for once."

"Ha. You're hilarious."

**.**

There were many things in the world that Finnick found easy to despise. Such as trains, wet grass, spiders, plastic cups, the Capitol, dirty windows, gray carpet, celery, most people, short hair, and winter. It was cold, dark, and absolutely miserable. He didn't mind the rain, though. In fact, it was one of the only things he could honestly say he loved. And somehow he had ended up on the roof of his two-story house at three o'clock in the morning in the midst of a rain shower wearing only his flannel pants.

It was a difficult task to get onto that roof. Mostly because Finnick took the most difficult path he could. He climbed out of his bedroom window, after figuring out how to get the screen off, and onto the slippery outside ledge. He would've fallen in a matter of seconds, and he almost did, too, but miraculously the edge of the roof was just low enough for him to grab onto. From that point, it was just the struggle of pulling himself up.

As he sat there, contemplating every prospect that seemed worth contemplating, he wondered why he had come onto the roof in the first place. It hadn't been an unusually restless night, and even if it is was, he would've just gone downstairs for a coffee and tried to make it through the night. When Finnick failed to come up with a logical reason, he did what he always did: pretended that he didn't actually care. Maybe he just sleepwalked… while still awake.

He leaned back on his elbows, which didn't make of a difference than sitting because of the already sloped roof, and tried to think of something happy to occupy his mind. Unfortunately, he came up with nothing. He turned his gaze from the tousling ocean to the chimney by his foot.

"What about you? Got any stories to share?" he asked it.

Not to his surprise, it didn't reply. So, he made up a story for it, instead. It was a happy story of talking seagulls and lots of wind and a bit of rain. However, no matter how much he sugarcoated the story, Finnick's life didn't get any brighter. It was dull and dark and gray like the night sky.

**iv. an end- a final part of something, esp. a period of time, an activity, or a story**

Annie Cresta was, to put it shortly, crazy. Finnick Odair was, to put it shortly, crazy for Annie. It all balanced out rather well.

He loved everything about her, even if she didn't believe him when he told her. He loved her laugh, her eyes, her hair, her amazement in things he would've overlooked, and the way she would hold everything as if it could break at any moment. Admittedly, he didn't love her screams, her nightmares, or how she would disappear inside her mind for hours sometimes. He hated it because she hated it.

It was hard to remember a time he didn't love her, but if he concentrated, he could picture his sister, her hair in braids, and how much she pretended to despise him. He often wondered if Maureen would like Annie, and decided that she would have. They were both open people who didn't hide their emotions and were always, always nice to strangers. _Yes_, Finnick thought, _they would've gotten along just fine_.

Annie was on the floor in front of the fireplace at Mags' house. Finnick sat behind her, playing with her hair. She was sitting with her knees bent in front of her chest and her face in her knees. Her bare toes were curled against the cold. His fingers brushed by her neck and she shivered. Finnick jumped a bit at the reaction; she had been locked in her mind for a few hours, not noting the world around her.

"You look cold," he noted calmly, continuing to brush through her hair.

She nodded in response, and lifted her head at last. She slowly looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. Finnick wondered what was going though her mind. Then, her eyes met his, and she smiled softly. He smiled back, which just made hers widen. It was those little moments where Finnick loved her most. There was nothing extravagant or romantic; it was just Annie and the brightness of her eyes that lit up the room.

"I love you," he said, in case she had somehow forgotten that.

She ducked her head and blushed, before glancing back up at him. Her eyes were a lighter green than usual. Finnick wasn't sure if that was a normal thing to notice.

"I love you more."

Finnick laughed and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "I love you most, then."

"Not possible."

And when she tilted her head up to kiss him, he could feel her smile. It was his favorite feeling in the world, knowing someone loved him. There were only two people in all of Panem who did, and one was in his arms while the other made tea in the kitchen and pretended that it wasn't ready just yet.

**.**

In the entire scheme of things, age doesn't matter the slightest bit. But to one individual's life, a person's age is the whole world. It was Finnick's twenty-third birthday, and the only thought he had was _I'm so old_. Which, if he really thought about it, was a bit of an exaggeration. Mags was old, he was just beginning; or that's how it was supposed to be. He felt right in the middle, and math was too boring a topic to be considered, so that's what he decided on. He was middle-aged, supposedly, and it was incredibly boring. He wondered how Mags put up with it. Patience, probably. Finnick didn't have time for patience.

He considered asking Annie what she thought, but she'd probably just laugh at him. And, he wasn't currently allowed to speak to her because Mags had kicked him out of his own house. The two women were probably baking him a cake, although who ever knew with them. Honestly, they could burn his house down and he wouldn't be that surprised.

So he was stuck on his back porch all alone in the freezing cold. At least Annie had the decency to let him take a jacket with him. The sudden absurdity of his situation finally hit him, and he couldn't stop laughing. He sat down in the rickety porch swing to support himself, but it only helped in emitting a range of squeaks.

Finnick tried to think clearly. How did he get here? Ten years ago he was a skinny boy with a stubborn attitude. He could still see himself as a child, sticking his tongue out at Maureen as she teased him. It wasn't really that long ago, but it felt like centuries. But, how did he get from _there_ to _here_?

He wasn't quite sure, and spent the next two hours imagining hundreds of different scenarios. He stopped only when Annie sat down next to him, dangerously rocking the wooden swing, and curled into his side. There wasn't any use coming up with different ways to end his story because this was the only one where he ended up with her. Finnick kissed the top of her head; she tasted like flour.

"Can I go inside now?" he asked teasingly.

She smiled, so he took that as a yes. Halfway to the kitchen, she said, as if she'd suddenly just remembered, "Happy birthday, Finnick." He kissed her head again in response.

**.**

"Will you tell me a story?"

Finnick looked down at Annie. She was curled up in three blankets in the center of his bed, a hopeful look on her face. It was about three in the morning, and Annie had just recovered from a stressful nightmare. A couple of tears still dripped from her eyes, and her was tangled from the few hours she did sleep. She was absolutely beautiful.

He jumped onto the bed next to her, making her bounce a bit.

"What kind of story?"

She looked at a corner of the room. Her expression was so comically thoughtful, Finnick almost laughed. Instead, he tucked her hair behind her ear. After a few minutes she finally replied, defeated. "I don't know."

Finnick thought about that answer, and leaned lightly against her.

"Well, where should it start?"

"At the beginning."

"Of course, silly girl, but where in the beginning?"

He was smiling, but she wasn't. He narrowed his eyes to try to be serious like her.

"At the beginning of the beginning."

"Alright," he agreed, and then chewed his next words to make sure he would say the right thing. It was a meticulous thing, creating a story. You had to say just the right words to sum up a picture so big it could never be covered. So he thought about it, and told her their story.

It started at the beginning of the beginning, just like she asked. It was her reaping, which was usually a tricky subject around her, but she stayed focused and intent, curious to hear what he had to say. Finnick tried to make the story worthwhile, because he knew nothing he said could accurately give her justice. She fell asleep halfway through, though, right at the point in the story when she had finally moved into his house. He continued it anyway, speaking it aloud even if no one could hear.

Finnick laid her down carefully, tucking the covers up to her chin, before lying down as well. He stared up at the ceiling and finished his story, all the way to the end of the end; or, at least, to where he was currently. He couldn't have continued even if he tried. He learned a long time ago that trying to predict the future was a terrible idea. Besides, he thought the story ended perfectly where it did; a man meant for tragedy asleep with a woman meant for prosperity.

**v. an epilogue- a section or speech at the end of a book or play that serves as a comment on or a conclusion to what has happened**

Of course, the story doesn't really end there; stories really end where they're supposed to. Finnick's life continued, as lives usually do, and he awoke the next day to continue his journey. It lasted four more seasons: a spring with a tragic announcement, a summer worth enough pain to last a lifetime, and a fall that ended surprisingly well with a pair of wedding vows. There was one more season to go, and it mostly over with, anyway. One tragic misstep, however, can change a story forever.

Finnick Corliss Odair died in winter, thirty-seven days before his twenty-fifth birthday.


	3. Annie Cresta

**Chapter title:** Drowning Lessons

**Author: **skeleton clique

**Summary/Author's notes:** Annie, learning how to keep her head above water. Title owed to the song of the same name.

**District: **2

**Character: **Annie Cresta

* * *

The water's too cold. Annie can tell from where she's sitting that her brothers aren't catching anything, and their trawler remains still a short distance from the pier, their figures moving about the deck slowly and throwing out a net at intervals. They're not far out, close enough that Annie can see the empty traps they pull up, and she knots her hands together nervously. The white bones at her knuckles show.

She's sitting on a wooden crate that somebody abandoned outside a warehouse, and her body is curled in on itself with her back pressed against the iron. The warehouse is out of use. Annie finds it calming and sits here most days, two hollow bodies becoming neighbours on the dock. She knows that her brothers can't afford another day without a catch, but the water's too cold for anything much. Her brothers must know it too, and she watches them haul up another netful of sea salt, the water running off of the slick rope. The fish aren't coming to this bay, and the wider bays won't welcome them. They're the direct family of a Victor, which means that they're the last priority. In a fishing village where nobody has enough, people tend to look out for themselves.

Annie pulls an old salt sack around herself and picks at the corners. The material is tough and rubs raw on her shoulders, but she doesn't mind; she'd do this when she was younger and cold sitting out on the boat. The sensation is familiar. It's the fatherly hands of her District on her back.

The men in the bays might not believe her, but her winnings haven't been enough for a long time. Annie has a sprawling family, spread out across District Four, and in addition to the four men she can see on the boat there are their families, their hungry children and white wives. There are her two elderly parents. There are too many cousins and second cousins to count. She's heard of other Victors doing work on the side to bring in money, work sanctioned by the President of the country, but Annie's been sitting on the dock for almost as long as she's been back. She could look into that work if she didn't spend twenty hours of every day staring at the sea, trying to drown herself in an arena she made it out of months before. At least the other Victors do something, instead of letting their families starve. Annie tucks her head between her knees and wills herself to disappear.

It's supposed to get better, but it doesn't. The difficult part was meant to be in the arena, but now she's surviving this and it's harder than anything. She's somewhere in between swimming and sinking, with the overwhelming urge to sink. Her winnings haven't made things better. Her victory has taken away a sister who could go out on the boat with them, a daughter who could pack the salt tightly into crates and the freedom to fish where they wanted. Her brothers are starting to draw the boat in now, and as they come closer Annie can see that the rope baskets on the wet deck have almost nothing inside. A couple of grey, flat bream lie at the bottom and arch limply. As her brothers faces resolve themselves, she can read the worry clearly in each salty line of their foreheads.

Then, behind her, she hears the same words that she hears every day on this dock, her name on a familiar tongue. 'Annie. Annie, are you there?'

Anybody who knows anything knows that Annie doesn't speak, but there's somebody who keeps talking to her after everybody else has stopped. He keeps the conversation flowing, as if someday she might be caught up in the currents of his words and give something back. He makes everybody the sea and applies the same rules. Annie doesn't respond, but he knows where she'll be, so he's suddenly warm and present beside her, taking the burlap from her shoulders and setting a wool blanket in its place. He doesn't take her jaw to raise her head, or search her dead stare with his own as her oldest brother would, but he brushes the salt out her windblown hair and makes sure he's gentle about it. Something about how his hands move suggests that he's done this countless times, a hundred times for her and one time each for a hundred other girls, but Annie lets him. That's enough.

As he brushes the knots out, he talks. As he takes her hair in his hands, he tells her about the old Victor, Mags, and how she's finding it easier to walk following her operation, or about how some villager who might have been a neighbour or a friend of Annie's is doing. He talks about how the villagers ask after her in the market and he tells them she's alright. He knows she wouldn't want anyone to worry. He doesn't talk about anything more important than that, but it's good to have someone who doesn't wait for her to respond.

He doesn't talk about the market rumours, where everybody talks about everybody else, and he doesn't talk about himself. It's alright. They're alright.

When he runs out of things to say, he'll sit beside her and they'll look out at the sea, unsure if they're seeing the same thing. Sometimes he sings softly under his breath, or she rests her head on his shoulder and tries to match her breathing to his. Sometimes, this is enough, but it isn't enough often and it doesn't last for long. Annie still believes that she's drowning, and Finnick knows this. Finnick holds her hands and promises her that everybody is the same as the sea; if they can wait long enough, then the tides will have to change.

The boat draws in across the cold water, and Annie lets Finnick tuck a stray curl behind her ear, securing it in place with a kiss.


	4. Madge Undersee

**Chapter title: **A Pebbled Smile

**Author: **dewdrops and crowns

**Summary/Author's notes: **Do you want to build a snowman?

**District:** 12

**Character:** Madge Undersee

* * *

When she was younger winter had always been Madge's favourite season. She would sit for hours in front of the window with snow falling outside, blurring the landscape and leaving condensation on the glass that she would absently draw patterns onto. One of the kitchen staff would sometimes sit with her and tell of memories and myths long in the past. Perhaps one of her favourite things was when her father managed to get hot chocolate from the Capitol, and she would drink it by the window. Being the impatient child she was she would drink it immediately, even the burn left in her mouth wasn't enough to put her off as she was desperate to taste the sweetness and feel that warmth you could only get from hot chocolate.

She always remembers playing in the snow with the other Town children, even from a young age they'd been told to stay away from the Seam, but they hadn't yet been warned away from her. They would be completely silly and throw snowballs and fall onto their backs to wave their arms around, and if she could pick one moment of just pure innocence she would hold onto those hours in the snow, when she really was just another girl.

And maybe those were rosy tinted memories, but she is still sure they were a million times better than the present.

The bell rings throughout the house at six o clock and Madge opens one eye, before immediately closing it and ignoring the awful sound her father had so wisely decided they would listen to every morning. She snuggles into her pillow, allowing herself to be covered in feather floating dreams.

"Madge, dear, we've been through this often enough by now, you really do have to get up." She hears the call of Daffy, who works in the kitchen. Madge simply replies with a sigh but forces herself to sit up and grab her clothes, awakened by the chilling winter air that she has grown to hate. The idea that she used to love winter seems laughable now. Though the sentimental part of her still smiles at the snow she can see outside.

When she returns home late that day in better spirits, she feels the need for her piano, and as she sits down she runs her fingers over the ivory keys, before playing one of her favourite pieces, the notes went from high to low and they make her think of running, a freedom from everything where she never has to stop. She'd always liked that idea. She can still remember learning to play the piano, many winters ago.

It had been the middle of the day, and her father was in the Capitol doing what had always been described to her as 'important things'. And oh was she bored. She was forbidden from going outside because she had caught a cold and so she sat by the fire, feeling miserable and unloved. It had been at that moment she was startled by the door opening and an unfamiliar hand on her shoulder, even back then she didn't see her mother often.

"I want to show you something," she had said quietly, and led Madge upstairs to her room, which she had always been told before to never enter unless it was an emergency. She could still remember the excitement she had felt and the joy that her mother wanted to spend time with her, she was so used to her mother needing her to be quiet and stay away. And that's when she'd seen the piano, dark and shining in a corner of the room.

"I haven't played it for a while, and I think it would nice for someone to use it." She tenderly brushed the blonde curls out of Madge's eyes and smiled, Madge had felt so honoured knowing she meant her.

She still plays for her, though less and less as she sleeps more and all noise gives her headaches. Her mother always wears the same smile when she plays though, one that lately has made tears come to Madge's eyes. She can't help but think every smile will be the last.

Lately she has felt more and more useless in her efforts to help her friends, she tries to talk to Katniss when she sees her and distract her from whatever horrors must be stuck in her head, but she can tell that Katniss isn't really paying attention, her mind is in another place altogether. And Madge feels so powerless and weak and well pointless. Katniss is her only friend and she's not doing a great job. She's doing an awful job. But how can she be there for her, when she doesn't have a clue what she's feeling, she's always been terrible with emotions and so has Katniss.

She continues the melody, letting her mind drift over the familiar notes, not needing to think about which ones she's pressing; just concentrating on the results she wants. Maybe she could play for Katniss? She's never been good with words but music she can handle.

She turns around suddenly filled with that strange idea that someone or something is there, and it's still snowing.

Before she knows it she's got her coat on and her boots and her gloves and she's going outside, ignoring Daffy's call of: "You'll catch a cold!"

She's outside twirling in the snow and she can't see anything that's further than ten feet away but she feels great, no one is watching for once, no one's ready to form a judgement. She faces the sky laughing at the soft, small specks, contrasting with the darkening sky, as if someone took a paintbrush and just splattered the sky with white. Those memories definitely weren't rosy tinted she thinks faintly, grabbing some snow and compacting it into a ball, throwing it away from her and starting in surprise when a cry answers.

"Who was that?" The stranger shouts angrily, and Madge's face turns red.

"Sorry!" Madge exclaims, completely embarrassed to have assaulted some defenceless passer-by. Though as the person's outline becomes clearer, she recognises them, and runs towards him, enveloping him in a hug. "Daddy!"

"Madge?" he sounds shocked, and Madge knows it may be because she hasn't hugged him like this since she was a little girl, or maybe because she just threw a snowball at him. She simply hugs him tighter in reply. And he does the same.

"Do you want to build a snow man?" she asks. And it sounds childish and he will probably say no and tell her it was a stupid idea, because Madge's father never does fun. But instead he says 'yes' and all the loneliness of the winter seems to just melt away.

It doesn't take long until a proud snowman is standing before them, and the two admire their handiwork.

"He looks a little bare," mutters Madge, knowing they can't use a carrot, food is too important.

"What about a scarf?" says a voice, and Madge turns around to see the impossible, her mother, standing outside, in the winter no less. "I saw you were building a snowman and I just had to join in," Madge's father's mouth is opening ready to blast out in protest. "Don't say anything, we all know I don't have very long left, and I'll be damned if I spend it all in bed."

Her face is set in determination that Madge recognises from her mirror, the Undersees are stubborn people by trade.

Her mother wraps the scarf around the snowman, steps back and pulls her arms around her husband and child, bringing them together. They don't say anything but the word love may as well have been written in the air. Madge hasn't felt this complete in a while.

"It is pretty cold," her mother finally admits, and they head inside, laughing though Madge knew there was a deep rooted concern under that.

She glances back at the snowman and wonders how long it will last, for now at least it has a pebbled smile.


End file.
